A Christmas Ghost Story
by Cheese-kun
Summary: A sensual Christmas love story wherein reality and irreality blend together. A famous author, living in his fantasy world, opens his eyes to see Victorian London's social problems with the  salacious  help of a mysterious American and a ghost. R18
1. Chapter 1

Hi, it's a bit early for a Christmas story, isn't it? But it's multi-chaptered, and I'll try my best to finish this around Christmas. This is inspired by Dicken's "A Christmas Carol", it was first a crack idea, intended to be some saucy porn with Scrooge!Arthur and Ghost!Alfred. But well, it turned out deeper ^^. There's still smut, though hahaha. Mmm~ supernatural smut.

* * *

**Chapter 1 - And he was blind**

"Lucy, how long do you intend to wear black? It's not proper for a young lady, betrothed to a respectable and famous figure of our time."

She was sitting in front of the fireplace with her mother, watching the tender flames dance and radiate the welcome heat. A novel lay abandoned on her lap. It was written by her fiancée. There was a snow storm outside as she looked out the window, the wind piped through every tiny gap. And she wondered. She wondered whether her fiancée was feeling cold. "Our love died and I mourn over the terrible loss," she said with a melancholic smile, earning an uncomprehending scowl from her mother.

Lucy opened the book to continue reading whilst trying to ignore her mother's complaints. Reading his story was the closest she could get to his soul, she therefore cherished every single word. Now, was he someone of childish nescience or simply a bad person? She thought that neither could quite explain her fiancée.

* * *

Arthur's steps sank deep into the thick layer of snow from last night's storm, though the young man barely noticed, never noticed the snow melt and wet his expensive shoes to prove the owner that they weren't worth half of the price he paid. Then again, why should Arthur care? Wandering around outside of his safe and beloved home spheres was forever a hated activity, but alas, he needed new paper and ink for his forever beloved pastime, and Arthur never trusted the unknowing fingers of his servants to buy them for him. He didn't like going out, because outside were people, many of them. And they were imperfect, not yet on a higher metaphysical level in mind, not yet shaped in character, not enough depth, not enough psychological twist, not heroic enough. So he decided to blend them out of the very world of his own creation.

There were playing children in worn out coats, passed on from father to the elder brother, then to the younger – a mocking symbolism of a trap called poverty, without possibility of escaping the cycle. There were young girls selling flowers that weren't in the least fresh and pretty; they were probably beautiful young women under the thick layer of dirt and what was stuck from hard work. There were thieves and they aimed for a gentleman's pocket, though most of the time their yield was merely a loaf of bread, if any. And their crime was their hunger. There were old women, crippled men begging for people's compassion. But Arthur Kirkland saw no futureless children, selling girls, thieves, or beggars. Before his eyes were dragons. Dragons and knights, fays and princesses, winged horses and majestic lions, exotic dancers and heroes in love.

"Arthur, Arthur - lost in thought as always," there he was again, the disturbance in his perfect magical world. Arthur rolled his eyes in annoyance and turned to glare at the 'intruder'. For some reason the brat was always able to break through his thick wall of fantasy.

"What do you want, Alfred?"

Alfred was tall and handsome with wavy hair that was golden under the afternoon sun, brilliant blue shone through his spectacles, and there was this bright smile that never seemed to leave his features. He was dressed rather fine, though he seemed to not care about wearing his attire in a neat, proper way. Arthur would be lying to say that the boy, who was definitely four or five years younger than him, was entirely annoying. There was something in him that reminded Arthur of the protagonists in his stories.

"You remember my name," Alfred said with a happy smile on his youthful face. He was by Arthur's side after one swift movement and slung his arm around the writer's shoulder, causing him to lose balance for a moment, because of his frailer physique. Of course Arthur knew his name, since he was practically shouting it the first time they had met. The first encounter with Alfred was truly an obscure happening, and really, there was no other word to describe a stranger stopping in front of you, looking at you in utter sadness and say _"Why are you so lonely?"_

"Get off me!"

"Aw come on, let's chat for a bit! Eh, how about we meet up tonight?"

Arthur didn't know how to react and it actually took him a moment of thinking to decide that he would rather not go. There was a better place awaiting him at home, a place exclusively for him and no other. "No." He was ready to walk away and it would have been easier without a heavy man clinging to him.

"Don't be like that, why not?"

"Because I don't know you. Besides you annoy me. Now kindly let go of me," Arthur demanded, his voice growing angry.

"You know nobody, not even your own family," the passionate retort caught Arthur off-guard, shocked him even and he found himself freeze to stare up at Alfred, wide eyed. That brat always said the most cryptic things at times most unexpected. And his words were ridiculous even, because he obviously knew his own family, it was sort of inevitable, giving that they were living under the same roof. However, in truth Arthur Kirkland had a vague idea of the meaning behind Alfred's words.

Arthur awkwardly adjusted his top hat. He was going to say something biting, but he figured that he wasn't Alfred's centre of attention anymore; instead his eyes were rested on a small girl, not much older than five years, desperately trying to at least sell one single bouquet of wild winter flowers. The writer watched Alfred approach the girl, how he knelt down in order to be at eye level with her. He smiled to the girl, bought the inartistic bouquet with a payment that magically made a smile appear on her face. Today she wouldn't need to work anymore.

"I want to show you London," said Alfred after he was back at Arthur's side, Arthur, who was looking at him in a puzzled way.

"I know London quite well myself, thank you very much." Arthur turned to walk off in angry steps - no way would he waste his time with that insolent boy - leaving Alfred behind. Blue irides watched him go with sadness.

* * *

The moment Arthur discarded his coat and top hat he was greeted by his mother, an energetic woman with strictness in her features, accentuated by the fine wrinkles on her forehead and under her eyes, the same eyes as Arthur. Her son sighed, he really wasn't in the mood for speaking with anybody (then again he never was) at the moment; he had his sheets of paper now and his finger were itching to write. There was only one thing planned for the rest of the day, which was barricading himself inside of his bedroom and write until he needed to buy new paper. In other words, it was his only plan for life. Though his mother wouldn't have any of it.

"Your future wife is here to visit you," she said with her raspy voice, which wasn't open for compromise.

Arthur glanced to catch a glimpse of the parlour where his fiancée was standing and she was looking at him directly. Lucy was wearing a bustle dress and a small roundish hat, probably the newest fashion, he wouldn't know, and it was black as usual. To his horror she was approaching him, hooked her arm to Arthur's and smiled to his mother. "Don't worry Mrs Kirkland, I'll keep him company in his room," she said politely, ignoring the fact that it wasn't the most proper act for fiancées to spend time in the same bedroom.

She closed the door, for she knew his habits. Arthur's bedroom hadn't changed since her last visit a month or so ago. His canopy bed with elaborate royal blue draping was neat as ever and she chuckled at the unicorn stuffed toy, earning a glare from Arthur. "Nothing is changing in your world," she gently said, without a single spark of nostalgia in her voice.

"Change is for unsatisfied people," was the only answer she received. Arthur was already at his desk, which was a hilly landscape of book and paper, and he was ready to work on his newest novel. She wrapped her arms around him from behind.

"I am one of them," she whispered and every word was full of grief. "And I wish you were too."

Arthur was silent and she too was silent in her crying; the tiny tear drops wet the fabric of his shoulder. She stayed with him for a long time while he was writing, she never let go of him, occasionally planting chaste kisses on his nape, hair or cheek. The rejected lover was clinging to him in fear of letting go, at the same time he wrote about a fair lady being courted by a passionate man. Such cruelty of irony, she thought.

After an hour or probably more, she finally withdrew herself and Arthur visibly relaxed. "Will you ask me out for Christmas?" She asked.

"Mother will demand it anyway," was his scarce answer and he remained indifferent.

"You break my heart, Arthur." She tried to say it with humour, but failed. "That's not the answer that your lady is waiting for."

"I apologise, Lucy," and she knew he didn't mean it.

* * *

The Kirklands' English garden was a miniature version of the larger one that belonged to their mansion outside London. It was covered in snow today. At that moment the garden wasn't entirely deserted. A blond young man stood beside the frozen pond, watched by the curious winter birds. He looked up, fixated his gaze on a window of the top floor. He could see Arthur at his desk and a woman behind him.

"We'll meet tonight." Alfred's whisper was carried away by the cold wind.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Hetalia is owned by Himaruya Hidekaz, not me.

**Chapter 2 - The Christmas long past**

Arthur decided to go to bed early that night; speaking to three persons in a single day was terribly tiring, and they were difficult people even. So here he was now, snuggled under his warm blanket, unicorn rested under his arm and holding one of his favourite novels that was written by himself. It was true, he was exhausted, but it wasn't possible for him to find sleep without reading something. At least a few pages, he said to himself, and wished that he could continue the story in his dreams tonight. Arthur always looked forward to that part of sleeping, since he was someone who was capable of remembering all his dreams. This time it only took ten pages until his eyes became heavy; the novel was dropped lazily on his lap and he buried his head deeper into the huge pillow. He fell into a deep, contented slumber with a last sigh and a low whisper goodnight to his unicorn.

He couldn't have slept very long when he was woken up by an unnatural glow, not too bright and yet enough to disturb his rest. He squeezed his eyes tighter and groaned before he reluctantly opened his eyes. He pushed himself up into a sitting position and tried to adjust his sight, still blurred from sleep. Arthur rubbed his eyes. Did it again. But his room remained foggy, besides there was this greenish glow spread in the air. Also, it was a bit colder than before. Arthur was truly puzzled; let his gaze wander over the room and he froze as he caught sight of the book that he was reading before. Page ten was opened, which was odd, for he could remember closing it. Though curiouser still were the feet floating over the pages. To be precise, one foot was floating, the other touched the pages.

Arthur gasped. There was a man partially hovered over his body, staring at him with large eyes that was mingled with curiosity and anticipation. Several things flooded Arthur's mind at a time and the most striking thing was the fact (or non-fact, for it was all too irrational in the eyes of common people, but Arthur wasn't all that normal) that the figure was lacking any flesh. The person wasn't entirely without essence, Arthur figured out, as he raised his hand to carefully feel the ghost and was surprised that it was actually touchable, even though it wasn't of a very solid consistency. The almost transparent ghost slightly backed away, but was firmly held by Arthur's grip around its wrist.

There was no mistaking it. He hadn't ever seen that face before, yet he recognised it without fail. He'd never met the transparent man in front of him before, but Arthur would all the same be able to tell that the other had a battle scar on his back. He would without doubt recognise the dirty blond hair, naturally tousled, the high cheekbones and those hazel eyes that were radiating intelligence and courage. Yes, how couldn't he? After all he was the one who wrote down all these characteristics, he was the one who created this figure in the first place, the hero who had his first appearance on page ten of his favourite novel.

"Anselm!" Arthur threw his heavy cover aside and leaned over to hold the ghost's face with both his hands. The author's eyes gleamed with delight and amazement; this had to be the greatest apparition that had ever occurred to him. "You've always been vivid in my imagination, and you're just like I wanted you to be. So gorgeous!"

Anselm smiled at his creator. "What if this is merely another imagination of yours?"

"Then staying in this fantasy is my only wish."

The ghostly appearance shook his head, his smile fading. "No. That's not what I wanted to achieve or rather, that's not what _he_ wants to achieve. "

Those words puzzled Arthur, but the writer was too preoccupied staring at his novel protagonist, admiring the strong build. Slender fingers, made for holding a pen, glided over Anselm's cheeks, brows, nose, his full lips, along his jaw and enjoyed the remarkable feel of something graspable, and yet not solid. Arthur was enchanted. "You're perfect," he said with a breathy voice.

"Arthur," Anselm interrupted, "it is about time you step away from the meta- world and open your eyes to the life where you belong to."

The caressing stopped. "What do you mean? You can't possibly demand that from me. To leave my happiness, my reason to be!"

"Humans are the most precious beings in this world's chain," the ghost continued with his soothing tone and he ignored Arthur's sarcastic laugh that had followed as a response.

"Scums." Apart from a few great authors.

"No. Listen, Arthur. If there's something that you need to cherish and protect, that should be your fellow men, especially the ones that are not treated as treasures."

"Are you trying to make me become like those adults, living a miserable life, led only by rationality, loosing their last spark of imagination?" Arthur's voice was growing desperate. He shifted closer to Anselm.

Anselm's gaze softened at these words. "No, of course not. Human imagination is what moves the world. Never lose the amazing wonders of your imagination. You will always be our treasured child." And as if on command the room began to be filled by twinkling lights, they looked like the stars on the night sky, just more colourful. Arthur smiled happily at the sight of his faerie friends appearing one after another, winking at him and surrounding him. "But cloistering oneself away, living only with and for us, is not...Listen to me Arthur. The faeries and me, we're beings in between reality and myth. You however are entirely real and being real means that you have to uphold certain responsibilities and that you need the presence of other people around you."

A frown crept on Arthur's expression, whatever Anselm meant, he wasn't going to open up for it. He was happy with his magical friends and he certainly did not need other people to be happy. He was perfectly fine, alone. That thought, though, was leaving him empty for some reason. "Arthur," Anselm's distant voice pulled him out of his musing. "Do you know what a good author is to be like?"

"Imagination, vocabulary, aesthetic," Arthur said after a short time of pondering. But anyway, he was growing tired of this conversation. So he shifted even closer, so close that he could feel the cold radiating from Anselm on his skin. His protagonist was so beautiful, perfect. He didn't think, he just somehow wrapped his arms around the ghost's neck and bent forward to kiss. Their lips weren't an inch away from each other, as Anselm spoke.

"A great author speaks to the people." Arthur froze, stared at the other with wide eyes. He immediately backed away, half covering his mouth with his hand in an offended posture. "He relates to people's lives, he isn't blind towards the world, he changes the world with words alone. Are you a great author, Arthur?"

Arthur made an attempt to push the rude man away from him, but the barely solid substance gave in at the force and his hands merely went through Anselm's chest. "A-are you implying that I'm unapt to writing?" He was trembling in anger. "My books are among the most popular in the whole fucking country!"

"People, who are searching for a temporary pastime, especially when they aren't in the mood to _think._ They're your reader."

"STOP! I don't want to hear any further! Why are you doing this to me?" Arthur jerked away and pressed his hands tightly to his ears.

Anselm sighed and touched Arthur's back. "However, I'm not the one to change you. Another being of your kind will pay you a visit tonight. Yes. Alfred will present his heart to you and you'll realise how wonderful it is not to be alone. I truly envy you."

Suddenly, Arthur was overcome by an immense need for sleep and his body fell limp onto the soft bed. _Alfred? The same Alfred?_

And everything went black.

The second time he awoke, it was still dark, but this time it was by a warm touch on his cheek. Arthur's eyes fluttered open and blue eyes, oh so familiar, stared back at him. More fingers joined the caressing of the lying man, until his face was entirely cradled between two strong hands. "Arthur."

Several seconds passed until it finally clicked and Arthur leapt with a stifled yelp, shoving the other blond away from him, though he obviously lacked any strike capability, for he was apparently still in a sleepy haze. They stared at each other. One was calm and amused, the other utterly petrified and swimming in horror. "W-what are you...?"

"I'm here to keep you company, Artie!" The cheerful response, considering the situation, was no matter what, inappropriate. Alfred was casually sitting on the edge of Arthur's queen size bed as if nothing was out of the ordinary, though Arthur didn't quite think that it was nothing out of ordinary. In fact, he was on the point of striking that blond creep to death for breaking into his house. The writer was fast in his movement to grab a candlestick on the nightstand; it was hard enough to cause serious harm, so he grasped it tight between his fingers and glared at Alfred. The man with the American accent raised his hand, meaning to appease Arthur's rage, told him to calm down. But Arthur wasn't easy to pacify, he already had both his arms above his head and was ready to swing the candlestick. "Whoa, easy!"

"What do you want?" Arthur growled.

"I just wanted to talk. I did want to meet you, remember?"

"Yes, but I can't recall inviting you into my house, let alone my room," emerald eyes were narrowed into hostile slits. Moreover he was wondering how Alfred was able to enter his room in the first place; he glanced to check on the window, but it was closed.

"But your _beloved_ Anselm told you that I would come, right?" Alfred said, smile not faltering. Yet there was something odd in the way he'd say those words, and it was also reflected in his eyes. Arthur stared. He suddenly remembered Anselm's words.

"How do you know..."

"I know everything about you, Arthur. It's my destiny to know," Alfred answered, as if it was a perfect explanation that left no open questions, and his expression turned soft. He reached for Arthur's now shaking hands that were still clutching the candlestick and they lowered themselves to Arthur's horror, just as if they were obeying Alfred. Arthur's arm went slack and they feebly fall to his sides; the candlestick rolled off his lap, over the edge of the bed and landed with a dulled thud on the carpet. The rapid breathing of anger turned unintentionally calm. Arthur noted with consternation that he had absolutely no control over his body.

"What-what have you done to me?" His voice came out as a hoarse whisper, he made an attempt to push Alfred off, but there was no power in his arms, so it was merely a soft slap on the American's chest.

"Just making you relax for a bit, cause I'm about to show you something," Alfred explained. His eyes were twinkling in what Arthur could only describe as anticipation. "Your past, Arthur."

Arthur frowned, not only because his sight was becoming blurry, but also out of confusion. What did Alfred mean? He fell backwards onto his soft pillow; hands limp next to his head. Voices of panic surged up in his head, but he was unable to act. A whimper escaped his lips. That made Alfred bend over him with a look that was meant to be soothing, but it failed its effect. "Shh, my little _faerie Queene_," he whispered and gently placed a finger on Arthur's trembling lips. He took pleasure at the sight of a rosy blush spreading all over Arthur's cheeks. Alfred let out a low chuckle, which earned him an angry glare from the other man, who was sprawled over the bed.

Frustration was overwhelming the author the longer he was exposed to this humiliating situation, though this was quickly replaced by shock as he sensed Alfred's face moving closer. He stared up, wide eyed. Alfred smiled in response, caressed the other's neck. It was answered by a shiver and another whimper.

"Are you ready?" The words were whispered into Arthur's ears.

Then he was kissed.

Alfred's lips were first cold and then warm on his own. Arthur's eyes widened in shock; a loud gasp escaped his lips, but it was soon muffled by another kiss. Squirming was barely effective, struggling with hands and feet wasn't even possible, considering that he had no power whatsoever left in his limbs. Inside of Arthur was a raging storm, and it was a storm of one single question:

Why was Alfred doing this?

He had no time to linger on his thoughts, for his vision was fading, his surrounding was fading, Alfred was fading; only the sensation of lips against his own was left. Everything turned black. Fear surged up in Arthur, it bordered on panic. What was going on?

There was no describing nothingness.

If he couldn't put something into words, Arthur was certain to despise that particular something. But no, he was mistaken. Amidst the nonentity he still felt the kiss, and it was the only way he could still be sure that he was in possession of a body and that he hadn't become part of the darkness.

Alfred watched how the writer's expression changed into something that could only be described as lost, judging by the furled brows and the tightly squeezed eyes, his lashes fluttering about. This situation of defencelessness, in which Arthur was presented before him, triggered something within Alfred, and he couldn't help liking the picture. The way Arthur's pale neck was readily exposed as he was throwing his head back and sideways at the sudden blackness that engulfed his sight, the way he panted in panic or because of Alfred's touching (he couldn't really tell). Everything was oh so inviting. That was why he was starting to slowly unbutton the other man's nightshirt. "Arthur, can you hear me?"

Arthur could faintly hear a voice calling out his name; it sounded distant, as if it was only the last remaining echo. Unlike the touching, which was starting to make him feel really uncomfortable and hot, the sound of his name was barely audible. Arthur tried to concentrate on that voice until it finally became clear.

"Can you hear me?"

Arthur could concentrate enough energy to nod his head.

"Listen," Alfred said, "You need to open up yourself to your memory. Seek your past within the blackness."

Arthur shook his head, refusing to do so, partially because he didn't know what to do and partially because, "I don't want to."

"Come on Artie. Do it," Alfred said in a low voice, kissing Arthur's remarkable collarbone and couldn't refrain from letting his tongue glide across the line. Arthur's long nightshirt was continuously unbuttoned, revealing more and more pale skin. Every hot breath that touched Arthur's skin was sending shivers throughout the writer's body and tinted the spot with a rosy colour.

It was hard for Arthur to decide what was worse, the empty darkness or the American molesting his defenceless body. "Sto-stop...," ha said between silent gasps.

"Artie, come on. Let the images of your past in," Alfred's right hand slipped under the thin garment, feeling up the warm chest of Arthur.

"I can't," Arthur whispered in a desperate tone, "I don't want to look into my miserable past. Please Alfred, let me go."

"Shh," Alfred stroked the damp strands of Arthur's fringe. "Look closer and you'll realise that, hey, it wasn't all that bad."

"N-nonsense."

"Just try."

Arthur tried to concentrate again; he wanted to get this over and done with as soon as possible, whereas he truly had no idea of what was happening. And indeed, the emptiness in front of him was slowly replaced by a surrounding, one that was familiar to him. It was a vast garden with many narrow roads; an oriental styled bridge connected the roads while a stream of cool fresh water coursed in between. The landscape was covered in snow, just like London at the moment. Only that it was clearly not London, given that it was the only property in sight. At the centre of said garden was a mansion, not too big in comparison with the vast garden. It had a bright coloured facade with a row of columns shaping the entrance, making every visitor feel reminded of the Italian Renaissance.

Arthur recognised the place of course.

It was his family's principle residence. It had been long, since he last stayed there. Arthur remembered the scent of the unpolluted air and breeze and he couldn't help the nostalgia. He loved this place, especially because there were so much more faeries and other magical beings than back in the big city.

His musing was interrupted by a loud cry of a small boy roughly landing on the snow, shoved by two other boys, who looked the same age, only slightly taller and broader. They were laughing and pointing at the small boy, now a sad shivering bundle. He wasn't crying, though.

Arthur knew that he was currently facing his younger self.

Though facing was the wrong expression as he seemed to be all-seeing, but not present with his body, because his body was currently thoroughly molested by Alfred. And Arthur just felt that his cheeks were coloured a bright red by now.

Alfred gulped. The pale skin was open beneath him and ready to be devoured by his longing mouth. Before doing so, he was suddenly interrupted by Arthur's frown, and it was an unusual frown, as if he was trying to force back his tears. And Alfred realised that the other was facing a particularly tough moment in his childhood life.

"I don't want to see anymore! Alfred, please!" Arthur choked.

Alfred gently kissed Arthur's forehead. "It's okay, I'm with you."

The boys were still laughing at small Arthur, who was still motionlessly crouched on the snowy ground. "Look at him. A rich boy, who's completely nuts!" They said. "So, how's your fairy friend doing? Is it always here to help you? Does it dance around you? Is it your only friend?"

Little Arthur glared at them and there was hatred in his striking emerald orbs, as if he was wishing them to just drop dead and disappear from his sight forever. The present Arthur knew that he was indeed having such thoughts at that time. People like them were responsible for him to retreat from every connection and relationship between other human beings around him. Day by day he was more and more alienating himself from his so called friends and lastly his own family. Arthur laughed bitterly at the memory. Yes, his magical friends never laughed at him, they never judged him and they were always there for him. Unconditionally.

He was yanked out of his grieving as an awfully familiar voice resounded to interrupt the scene. That forever hateful French accent.

Francis.

How could he have forgotten that particular eyesore made of frills, flashy colours, feathers, furs and sick perfume? Now he was coming to add to little Arthur's miserable life.

But instead of joining the taunting laughter with the other boys, he was shoving them away from Arthur, shooting a dangerous glare towards their direction. "This is no place for low- born brats like you! GO!"

The bullying children looked like they were up to fight back, since Francis was making a rather frail impression with his overall fashionable getup, but it appeared that they were quite hurt and intimidated by his harsh words. So they left the Kirklands' grounds. As soon as they were out of sight, little Arthur's hanging shoulder was forcefully grabbed by his French archenemy, startling the sandy blond. "All these things happen, because you're such a troublesome little idiot! Why can't you just stop seeing hallucinations and be like a normal boy as far as possible for an unsightly eyebrow-face?"

Young Arthur's response was yelling, squirming and shoving. He rose without brushing off the snow from his bottom and ran off with a trail of more cussing coming from his mouth.

Maybe it was because his younger self had kept his eyes constantly downcast, too busy to hide his hurt feelings from being bullied by boys of the same age, that he failed to notice that Francis had actually helped him. Now, after so many years, when he was being a watcher from the outside, was he finally able to notice this small detail.

That didn't change a thing, right?

Arthur's younger self entered the mansion with loud ruckus, still cursing and feeling bothered. He was about to slam the door to his own room shut. But a small body appeared from the hallway and it threw itself against his chest. On second glance he recognised that it was actually a girl. Lucy.

Her dress was green and bright.

"Arthur, don't be sad. I'm here with you," she said with her sweet voice.

Her dress was so bright.

This act of kindness, too, remained unnoticed.

Then he felt a sudden rush of strength flowing in his body and he could move his limbs again. His room returned after one blink of his eyes and he found himself staring into Alfred's blue eyes. Lucy's loving smile and the surrounding of the mansion were merely fading images in the back of his head now; the memory however remained vivid. Arthur panted as if he had returned from a long run, cheeks glowing in heat, because of what he had seen and because of what Alfred had done to him.

As soon as he was somewhat able to regain his composure and control over his action, the American was pushed away in an angry motion. It was strong enough to have him land on the floor. Alfred hissed and rubbed his back. He stared up at Arthur accusingly, almost as if he had no idea of why he deserved to be treated that way.

"How dare you touch me, you perverted scum!" Arthur was breathless and his voice had an enraged tremor. "What did you think?"

But that was not the only question he wanted to ask. "A...and, what was that?"

Alfred was on his feet again. He climbed back to sit beside Arthur and leaned over to touch the writer's still burning cheek. "I wanted to help you. To make you see that you've never been alone. You had real people around you, who offered real affection," he said and his eyes were looking upon Arthur with so much tenderness that he couldn't doubt the genuine feeling. But he wanted to doubt.

"I didn't like that French boy, though," Alfred added with a huff.

"I don't like him either," and Arthur was surprised when he found himself answering. "Still...he...helped me, didn't he?"

Alfred nodded and grinned. "Gosh Artie, you're so egoistic, aren't you?"

Arthur glared at him again. "What do you know about me?"

"Ahaha, calm down."

Arthur blushed and avoided eye contact with Alfred. Never before was he touched by a person like that. The sensation still lingered on his lips, neck, chest and his sensitive nipples. The thought sent more colour to his face and he covered the exposed skin. His gaze shifted nervously, until he was forced to stare at Alfred's lower body. He froze in his position, shocked by the sight. He wanted to scream and crawl away with the speed of a hurried unicorn, but he only managed to twitch the corners of his mouth. Alfred blinked, clueless to the problem, until he followed Arthur's horrified stare, down to the obvious bulge under his trousers between his thighs. Alfred laughed.

"Well, it's a stubborn one I guess!" He rubbed the back of his head, wearing a sheepish grin.

"A-a stubborn one? You fucking pervert, have you no shame?" Arthur stuttered.

"I can't help it. When I was showing you the pictures, well, you kind of made really adorable faces. And I couldn't help kissing you, tasting your skin, touching your-"

"ENOUGH!" Arthur interrupted, face incredibly red. His embarrassment was unbearable. "Get out. Immediately. And never show up in front of me again. Ever."

He really wanted to know who or what Alfred was, since he was apparently in possession of certain abilities, but this was going too far. He never had much sexual experience, but Alfred's obvious erection was indeed...stubborn, if he had to give an opinion. And he was staring again.

"What should I do about it?" Alfred suddenly asked and Arthur was speechless. He was unable to cope. He knew how to solve that problem, of course, but there was no way that he would answer Alfred by saying that he should take care of it by himself, besides, he was pretty sure that Alfred was perfectly aware of what to do.

"How about leaving my house and disappear from my life?"

"But Arthur, don't you want to end this, too?" Arthur had no chance to react in time as his hand was grabbed and pulled over to touch the bulge on Alfred's trousers. The writer was dumbstruck, wide eyes stared at his trembling hand and then at Alfred, who didn't look like he was joking. "I promise, I'll make you feel good."

Arthur shook his head in fear. "D-don't touch me." He tried to wriggle himself free, to no avail.

"I'll kiss you," Alfred said in a voice that was deep and filled with desire, and then his lips touched Arthur's lips. They parted audibly.

Arthur felt his body go weak and powerless and that was not because Alfred was using his ominous ability again. Maybe it was because he was pushed down against his pillow and because Alfred was sliding his thigh under the hem of Arthur's long nightshirt, causing him to gasp and cover his mouth with his hand to prevent any noise from escaping his lips. Though the younger wouldn't let him do that. "Let me hear your voice," he whispered, while gently removing the hand.

"Stop it, you git," the writer protested between pants.

"But I don't want to. I've been waiting for far too long," Alfred said and he actually sounded desperate. "I'll kiss you again and slide my tongue inside of you to feel more of my Arthur."

He leaned in for another kiss, sensed the shiver that coursed through Arthur's body just before their lips met. He knew that he shouldn't be doing this, if he really cared for Arthur. But his body was out of control and led by the overwhelming desire. The opportunity was too tempting. He was alone with Arthur, in his room. This time he dared to deepen the kiss just as he had said moments before. He noticed the lack of resistance and immediately knew that the grinding against Arthur's crotch was showing its effects. And his heart skipped a beat at the sight of Arthur's expression. Arthur's head was lightly tilted, his eyes tightly shut and his cheeks were seductively tinted in a bright red colour. Alfred could see the inner struggle, but Arthur's sweet mouth was slightly opened at the same time, as if inviting Alfred to explore it. He knew he was misinterpreting, though he couldn't care less at the moment.

"Alfred, please...s-stop...Ah-"

"I can't...inside of you is so warm," ah, his own voice was becoming hoarse, too.

Alfred's heart leaped. Arthur was subconsciously thrusting his hip back against the other's grinding thigh, involuntarily motivating Alfred's actions. Soon Alfred was pressing his hip against Arthur's and he moaned at the friction of his erection coming in contact with another body.

The mysterious American, with his half-lidded eyes observing the man beneath him, was like an artist marvelling at a piece of art. Or was he like a vandalising brute, destroying said piece of art? The besotted eye of lust was making it difficult to decide.

Determination caught him. He really wanted to make Arthur feel good, he wanted to hear his cry of lust.

That was why his hand was wandering up along Arthur's inner thigh; he let it slip under the seam of the long nightshirt and rejoiced at the lack of cloth beneath. Sweaty fingers engulfed Arthur's growing erection.

Arthur's eyes snapped open. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

His arms, suddenly in renewed possession of strength, were desperately trying to push the heavy body above him away. All of his effort was interrupted as he loudly moaned against Alfred's chest at the sudden sensation of fingers rubbing and pumping along the shaft of his throbbing penis.

Arthur Kirkland couldn't believe it. He cursed at his betraying mouth for letting out such an obscene sound.

"I'm just helping you out, Artie. Heck, you hadn't had any for a long time, I can tell." Alfred said whilst ignoring the struggling and he focused on more pumping the erection and licking Arthur's nipples. "You forgot the love that has been offered to you a long time ago. I don't want you to forget my love, so I'm making sure to leave a staying impression."

He was so easily speaking about love, as if they'd know each other forever, Arthur thought. And yet, his protagonist fell in love with a princess, who he had never met before, on page fifteen. For the first time in his life, Arthur questioned his own writing. At such a moment of all times.

Back to the physically more pressing matters. The heat was exponentially rising in his body and it shook at the overwhelming sensation. Not only was Alfred rubbing his admittedly very hard member, but he was now pumping harder, making it difficult for Arthur to remain sane and keep quiet. The breathing came out as gasps that were becoming louder.

"Aah...No. Please..." _Don't stop. _

Looking at how Arthur was slowly losing himself in imposed pleasure was enough to send Alfred near the edge. The other free hand was now rubbing at the own erection, the fabric of his trousers was getting in the way, but he didn't bother.

Alfred could feel that Arthur was close to coming and he sped up whilst getting more aroused by the lewd noises of fingers sliding over a penis, thoroughly coated with pre-ejaculate.

Arthur was brought higher and higher in ecstasy. The hands, which where used for pushing Alfred away were now tightly gripping at the American's sleeves, probably leaving red marks underneath. It reached the point where it became too overwhelming for him to bear and he released his load in Alfred's hand with a loud cry.

He faintly heard a low grunt above him, indicating that Alfred had also reached his climax.

Arthur was kissed on the forehead. "I'm sorry," Alfred whispered and it was as if he holding back a sob. But Arthur didn't hold back. The tears ran down his still burning cheeks like a stream. He felt humiliated, ashamed of himself and downright devastated. The repeating apologies whispered in his ears were mysteriously working like a soothing incantation.

"I'll see you again," Alfred gently said.

Arthur shook his head. "You won't."

* * *

It was his tenth time hitting the pillow that night. Alfred loathed himself for what he had done to Arthur. He had returned to his apartment in a very depressed state, badly affected by Arthur's words.

It didn't go as planned. He was supposed to show Arthur his past and let him reflect over what he had seen. And that was it. There was no touching, kissing or bringing the other into orgasm involved in his plan. His duty wasn't fulfilled yet. He still had to encounter Arthur twice; he still had two things to show him.

But Alfred had watched Arthur and Anselm. He'd seen how Arthur was so enamoured with that ghost of his own fiction, how he was treating Anselm with pure fascination and want. Up to the point where Arthur had attempted to kiss that ghost, that was where he lost control over his emotion and actions. Never was he so determined to pull Arthur back to the real world. Only that his reason was nothing more but pure egoism, a desire to possess. He wanted Arthur to live in the real world, because Anselm was part of the metaphysical world, and he was jealous of Anselm. And he had hurt Arthur because of that goddamn jealousy. He didn't treat Arthur with respect and care.

Alfred knew that he had failed to be Arthur's hero.

But it was too late. He was already addicted to the feel of Arthur's body against his.

* * *

Uff. Well...yeah. This was a confusing chapter with the constant switching of perspectives, thanks for putting up with it ^^.

Anselm is my OG ...Original Ghost. Lol lame.

Thanks for all your previous reviews, alerts and favourites. I was thrilled and I hope that you'll write more reviews, cause reviews motivate me to no end.


	3. Chapter 3

Yo! It took me a long time again XD. I am a slow writer, have always been one. And it's not easy to write in English, so have mercy on (lazy) me.

Nevertheless I hope you enjoy this rather lenghty chapter. And remember: reviews make me happy...they let me think I'm special and stuff. You may also bash me, I'm not picky.

* * *

**Chapter 3 - Renaissance of a writer**

The day he met Alfred on the streets was one week after the incident in his own bedroom. The week that had followed after that night was a torturing one to Arthur. His reason for having the need to buy new papers and ink after such a short time was not because of a wave of page filling inspiration, but rather the lack of. He'd started so many first pages and every single one was discarded and they simply landed in his fireplace to burn -that was the only way for those to become useful. It was, as if his ability of writing was mysteriously gone.

There was something new in the way he read and judged his own writing. Since that obscure night, where he had encountered Anselm and...Alfred, he was forced to face his own stories in a different way. And suddenly, his writing was rubbish in his eyes. It hurt his pride badly to admit that yes, something was missing in his stories.

"_A great author relates to people's lives, he isn't blind towards the world, he changes the world with words alone."_

"_Are you a great author, Arthur?"_

Anselm's words echoed in his head like a stubborn parasite, consuming his mind and inspiration, pushing Arthur into self criticism. And when Alfred was talking about love that night Arthur was constrained to reflect on the definition of love, which had always been one of the grave elements in his prose and poetry.

So he was off to buy new writing supplies, eager to get everything done with as quickly as possible. Arthur spotted a striking blond head with an unmistakable cowlick among a circle of standing children, a group of gleeful boys and girls, all exhausted from work, but still with enough energy and high spirits to laugh. Arthur wouldn't describe himself as hardworking, physically speaking, yet he couldn't bring up the energy and mood to laugh just like them. Anyways, so there was Alfred sitting with the strays, looking as goofy as ever, nothing at all like the molester from last week.

Thinking back of that night made him blush again, just like every night that had followed. Yes, he was ever since plagued by dreams of Alfred touching him in ways that were hardly appropriate. He would always wake up with embarrassment awaiting him under the duvet. It was all that git's fault. Arthur was therefore determined to confront that American and blame him until he was satisfied.

Arthur's body cast a long, menacing shadow above the gathering children and they looked up with unease, meeting Arthur's cold gaze. They shyly backed away until only Alfred was left alone with Arthur. He was greeted with a bright smile as Alfred recognised him. "Arthur!"

Arthur pointedly backed away to show that he hadn't forgotten what had been done to him. "I hate you!" He spat.

Alfred's expression fell, hurt replaced his previous delight. But soon he recovered and the smile was back gracing his lips. "I was so happy that you would actually greet me on your own initiative, but then all I get are harsh words!"

Then he was grabbed by the collar of his mantle, a surprisingly strong fist pulled him down at eye level with Arthur, his piercing emerald orbs glared at him with fury. Alfred merely blinked with glasses askew, completely taken aback by the reaction. Arthur hissed and tightened his grip, making it hard for the American to breathe. "You are one worthless molester. How dare you touch me with your filthy fingers!"

Alfred was rendered speechless for the next few seconds until he was attacked by a sudden fit of laughter. Arthur stared at him aghast. "What the hell is funny?" He was answered by another guffaw.

Alfred somehow managed to free himself from Arthur's dead grip and he was now looking at the writer with a new kind of glint in his pure blue eyes. "I'm totally baffled Arthur. Never seen you so passionate before. You were always so indifferent, didn't care a shit about anything. And now you come to me to bitch around, getting violent and all. Wow, just wow!"

The writer was flustered, unable to come up with a good way to counter Alfred's words. It was true; he never bothered to care for anything, not even because of anger. He'd lost any passionate reactions towards the people around him. There was no place for love, not even for hatred. And just now he was so riled up that something in his nerves snapped and his hand kind of moved on its own and his mouth just spat those words. But he was after all a victim of molestation. Arthur simply huffed.

As for Alfred, he was delighted. To him it was proof that he was being noticed by Arthur, that he was actually being seen. A small victory it was but certainly enough to lift the American's mood, allowing him to recover from the feeling of guilt that was plaguing him the past two weeks. Looking at Arthur made him burst in affection and to be honest, Alfred felt relief flooding within him; it set a rest to the growing fear that the other man would grow to hate him, to the point where he would erase Alfred's existence out of his memory, life and world. Sure, the writer was raging. But rage always held hope for forgiveness.

Neither knew how it came to this. Arthur was intently eyeing a fountain pen with finely engraved flowers that were intricately arranged as golden ornaments on the shiny black surface while Alfred, who had rudely decided to follow him, was standing close behind, staring at the exact same object over the smaller man's shoulder. Arthur rolled his eyes in annoyance. "Look, I think this place is too small and can't take bigger crowds."

"But we're the only ones here, Artie!"

"Yes, but you're a monster taking up the whole space in this small shop."

"Are you making a joke? Boy, Artie, I didn't know you were capable of joking!"

"I am not joking, you daft fool! I was being spiteful at you."

A slender old gentleman interrupted Arthur's hissing with his presence. The owner of said small and exclusive stationary shop smiled at Arthur who was still holding the fountain pain with care. "You're with company today, sir? Truly a rare sight."

Arthur blushed.

"I…actually…"

"Yup, he's with me today. I'm Alfred by the way. From America. That place that kicked all your asses!" Alfred laughed heartily, earning a furious scowl from Arthur and a slightly confused stare from the owner.

"You must be really close to the young master. I can imagine that having you to accompany him buying ink and a paper for his writing is an act that demonstrates intimacy. Yes, in fact I'm pretty sure it is, since to him, writing is what makes his life enjoyable and worthy enough to cherish."

"Aww, Artie, you touch me!" Alfred exclaimed. Despite his teasing he perfectly knew how true that shopkeeper's words were. Writing was Arthur's everything. He couldn't keep his fond smile, making Arthur flush and turn his head to avoid looking at Alfred.

"Don't be so full of yourself; I never invited you to come along!" Arthur huffed.

The chill winter air crept through their mantles as they stepped out of the small shop. They shuddered. It was a busy day and one could practically feel and smell Christmas approaching with all the traditional pastries put into display at the front of the bakeries' shop windows, with maids rushing here and there to run errands for the Christmas dinner. Alfred liked Christmas; it was the time where one could almost magically experience some peace. He liked to see Christmas in that way.

Arthur looked up to the cloudy sky with a distant gaze. Where were the dragons?

"So, I'll see you tonight," Alfred said and turned to leave.

"ALFRED!"

But the American only waved without looking back.

The whole house was busy and loud this time of the year and Arthur hated the noise and the stress that was oddly combined with people's happiness. Christmas meant spending time with the family, singing songs and spending time with his fiancée. Lucy was in the house for she had decided to help out with holiday preparations, so she would be around for a few days. At the moment she was decorating the parlour with his mother, at the same time singing a cheerful tune that was not familiar to him. A modern song perhaps. Anyways, he didn't plan to make his presence noticeable, so he was careful not to make a noise as he ascended the steps.

The sheets of paper were still blank and new at nightfall, and Arthur dreaded the coming of the night. His eyes constantly shifted to the windows, his hands played a game of clenching and unclenching. He was sure he wouldn't sleep tonight, so he waited.

And Alfred came. He was nonchalantly sitting on the windowsill, his face illuminated by the bright moon. He smiled. Arthur's heart forgot how to beat for a second. He shouldn't be allowed to be so handsome, Arthur thought. He shouldn't make a showy appearance, bathed in moonlight and being bright like a creature not from this world, exactly like a protagonist of a fantastic story.

"Good evening Arthur," Alfred greeted, his voice was deep and soft.

"It's inappropriate to say that when you're breaking into someone's house."

Alfred laughed and jumped in with an easy swing of his long legs.

They stood facing each other; the air was filled with awkwardness. It remained like that for a long moment until Arthur regained enough courage to speak up. "Who are you?"

"I'm Alfred."

"I know about that. But who are you? Why can you do these things?"

"I told you already, didn't I? I was born just for you," Arthur didn't know how it happened, but Alfred was now merely a few inches away from him, boring into his soul with those blue eyes, where the colour was framed inside two orbs and yet there seemed to be an endless sky within.

"No, you…didn't say that. What do you mean by that?" To his surprise Alfred's answer was an unknowing shrug.

"I don't know. I just know that I was born for you; that I have to help you out of this life…," Alfred caressed Arthur's warm cheek, "I must save your soul, otherwise…I'll die."

Arthur's eyes snapped open. So many questions flooded his baffled mind. He raised his hand to knead his temple; he was promptly hit by an aggressive nausea. His bed. He needed to lie down so badly.

"You…you come here out of nothing; invade my personal space…my _life_!" His voice trembled with anger, "And now you tell me these things, show me these things! An unknown American appears to me, telling me he was born just for me, throwing my world upside down without warning…and, and I'm just so lost! "

He didn't let Alfred have his say.

"And then you do these things to my body…I, I- - -, "his voice died in his throat.

"Shh, hey…Arthur. Look at me, I'm sorry," Alfred pulled the other in an embrace, hoping that he wouldn't be rejected.

"No, you're not sorry," somehow, Arthur's words were right, Alfred noted with a cringe. "You act as if nothing happened! You let me confront my past; show me things I never wanted to see. Because of you I can't even write anymore, my hands are useless!"

Arthur looked up to search Alfred's eyes, and he found them. "I can't sleep, Alfred. I keep having dreams of that night and I…" Embarrassed, he covered his face with his hands.

The mysterious American was rendered speechless. How surprising, Arthur could be awfully honest for someone who was so uptight and withdrawn. Or maybe he was the only one lucky enough to become witness of this rare display of emotions, he really wished he was. Anyway, this time his words failed him, so he tried to comfort Arthur with stroking hands, chaste kisses on his head, even though it was difficult with the other wriggling in his arms. Somehow Arthur had managed to free himself from Alfred's grasp.

"I lost my ability and inspiration to write and it's your fault."

They remained silent for a minute or more.

"Hm…I think …all you need is something new."

"As if it were that easy," Arthur said with a sarcastic laugh.

"I don't know, what about…opening up to see from a new perspective," Alfred said and extended his arm to offer his open hand, "you only need to be willing to do so."

Arthur struggled, unsure whether he should take the other's hand. He was fighting a war within his own self, for a tiny part of him knew that he was facing a dead end regarding his writing. And…what harm would taking that hand do? Biting his lower lip, he hesitantly took Alfred's hand.

Once again there was no way to describe nothingness.

But this time he wasn't only seeing it, he was there, with his whole body. And he wasn't alone. To his side was Alfred holding his hand, smiling at him in an attempt of encouragement. Before Arthur could even wonder what Alfred was about to show him today, the scenery changed.

They were floating above rooftops, long rows of similar looking houses, dull and colourless and definitely small. The grey houses almost blended in with London's smog, both were equally dirty. It was the first time for Arthur to see such misery. A sad place it was, without room for fantasy to live and survive. A place where time was trivial, lost in the struggle to live through another day without hunger; where it was luxury to have time, just like almost everything else was luxury.

It was ugly.

Arthur frowned.

"Alfred, this has hardly anything to do with me…," he said.

"No. But remember, a different perspective," Alfred squeezed Arthur's hand.

They descended and found footing in front of an entrance door of one of the houses. Arthur seemed unsure. "I don't know Alfred…"

"Come on!" Alfred pulled the other along and to Arthur's surprise they went right through the closed door like ghosts. Most interesting, Arthur thought.

One couldn't say that it was warmer inside of the house. Arthur could feel the cold piercing through his limbs even though he theoretically shouldn't be able to feel anything as this was just another vision. Alfred too shivered from the chill, yet he didn't appear to be as surprised as Arthur was. Looking around, Arthur could witness the reality of London's workers and their family. Somewhere within his consciousness he already knew that they were living in such conditions but seeing it himself triggered something in his heart and he felt it being painfully squeezed.

The space was limited, nothing at all like Arthur's home that was spacious with large windows and bright rooms. He could see a bed that the family most likely shared, partially because it was warmer that way. On the floor right next to it was a small pile of blanket spread out to form another sleeping facility; a worn out and grey pillow rested on it. The perturbed writer felt sorry for the one who had to sleep on the floor, because there was no way that the miserable and thin layers of blankets could spare a person from the merciless cold.

Other than that, the whole living space wasn't richly furnished. The kitchen was merely separated by a curtain from the sleeping area and it was also the only heated place. Naturally everybody was gathered near the fireplace, exhausted but contentedly seated around the wooden kitchen table, sharing little stories of their days. There wasn't much in the whole house but it was clean nonetheless.

Arthur listened to their conversation. The father was complaining about his Austrian employer who was an annoying slave driver; but today, he told his wife, that snob got a taste of his own bitter medicine, because that jerk's wife was commanding him this and demanding that, all because of the Christmas preparations. The children on the other hand told their parents of the two nice Italian brothers (well the other wasn't exactly what one would call nice but he didn't seem like a bad person either) who were kind enough to give each of them a candy, as an early present they said.

And then they were laughing.

"Why are they laughing?" Arthur said with a deep scowl.

Alfred glanced at the man to his side. "A happy family scene, Arthur."

"Happy? How can they be happy when they're living in this rat hole? How can they be happy with –with- all this?" Arthur's voice was suddenly furious. "How can you be happy in this colourless place?" This time he couldn't escape and shut himself away from reality, instead he found himself forced into seeing and he saw clearly; the poverty that was all around and the little spark of happiness in between.

"I don't know…maybe because despite everything…they still have each other?"

It didn't make sense.

"I don't understand…"

"But, you're right of course. Not everybody can live in poverty and be happy, it's a rare privilege," Alfred said.

"Naturally…but what…?"

"Take my hand, I'll show you something else," the American's hand sought Arthur's.

The scenery changed before their eyes. Instead of the interior of a house, a dark alleyway had started to form, complete with browned puddles and a distinctive smell that assaulted both their noses, causing them to grimace. This vision was far too true to details for Arthur's liking. The narrow street was barely wide enough to fit two persons, so he had to press himself against Alfred. He blushed at the sudden closeness and he remembered his shameful dreams about the American.

"Ah, sorry," he apologised for having to squeeze himself close to Alfred.

"No problem, Artie!" Alfred sure looked cheerful, Arthur noted with distaste.

It was not until there was a slight rustling coming from the far end of the alley where the rest was enveloped in shadows, that Arthur became aware of the fact that they were not quite alone. Dark silhouettes of two people left the shadows and stepped onto the dimly, moonlit, street – their footsteps heavy and careful not to make too much noise. Judging from the varied heights of the two persons Arthur could say that one was significantly younger. Just then their faces became visible to both Alfred and Arthur. And the writer gasped at the sight of the younger person who was clinging to the older man in the fashion of a common female prostitute; his eyes looked up flirtatiously to the not by much wealthier man with greyed hair and toothless grin. _My God, such a young boy! _

Arthur darted questioning eyes towards Alfred who was watching the two strangers walking and groping each other. The old man groping the young boy, to be precise. The American didn't respond with words but signified with a hand gesture that Arthur should watch closely.

Disgust was clearly apparent in Arthur's expression as his eyes shot widely open and his lips parted in a silent cry, gradually distorting the face of slight confusion into one of utter horror, seeing that boy being pushed against the wet brick wall with his slender body all the while defiled by wrinkled hands. Arthur moved his legs as a reflex reaction. The usually indifferent Englishman didn't have the heart to turn a blind eye to this. Of course it was impossible to do anything against it. He wasn't sure whether this was merely an illusion made by Alfred or whether this was truly happening, somewhere else in London at the same time, but he was all the same unable to intervene.

But helping him was unnecessary anyway.

Something flashed between the boy's hand and not a second later the man collapsed before him; he thrashed his body around on the ground, his coat soaked by the rain water in a puddle, until he eventually stopped moving at all. The boy was holding a knife that he had fetched from under his coat. From his expression though, it didn't seem like he had done it as an act of self-defence; there was something calculating in the boy's eyes.

"It was…"

"…all planned, yes," Alfred finished his sentence.

The boy bent down and felt up the dead body's pockets. He seemed to have finally found what he was searching for, because he was licking his lips with a triumphant grin. A small pouch was taken out of the corpse's pocket; the boy loosened the string that was tied up around the opening so that he could take a peek at the content. Not a very enriching haul but not less worthwhile of killing that man, the hate filled expression of the boy said as much.

"As I told you before," the American continued, "not everybody has the luck of being in a loving family. Where there is no love to make misery bearable, hate and desperation takes place."

Arthur was about to ask, yet again, why Alfred was showing him this. But the question was stuck in his throat, for he was suddenly captivated by something entirely different. That boy's expression, he could not have been older than twelve, it had been so fierce and violent the moment he had stabbed the man. Such raw emotions in all its banality and undisguised display were almost abstract in Arthur's eyes.

Evil was not something new in Arthur's worldview. He had villains in his books of course. However none of them had hatred as deeply rooted as that young boy's, not even close. Suddenly Arthur's antagonists were nothing more than shallow characters.

Arthur was, dare he say it, inspired. His heart was gradually beating faster; his hands were restlessly itching for a pen. It was naturally by no means right to feel this rush of inspiration, caused by a corpse, a blood dripping knife and the young boy holding it who was driven by pure hatred towards the injustice called fate or simply circumstance, who was also driven by the plain deliberation of surviving another day without having to feel hungry.

Alfred noticed that something was changing inside of Arthur; he could clearly see that particular something causing a fire storm within the writer's body. The thrilled expression of an author dying to create life out of a blank sheet of paper was back again on Arthur's fair face. No, 'back again' was not the correct word, rather 'born anew'. And Alfred couldn't help the desire that overwhelmed him at such a sight. Changing Arthur, a noble task from the very first, had without further warning become his personal sin, for he felt immense pleasure in doing so. That's the point where noble intention turned to egoism.

"Arthur…"

"Yes?" Arthur answered distractedly, his voice coming out hoarse.

"Let's go back, I want to touch you properly."

"Wh- excuse me what?"

The surroundings cracked and slowly dissolved, taken over by a more familiar picture. It didn't take very long until they were back in Arthur's cosy and warm bedroom where it was dry and free of dirty puddles. They both stumbled from the sudden change of location; Arthur's back hit the door of his room and Alfred could still catch himself in time so that he wouldn't crush the other beneath him. Looking up, he was surprised to find Alfred staring down at him, his strong arms rested against the wooden door to both Arthur's sides.

The author's heart skipped a beat.

"Again and again," Arthur said, he looked ready to either cry or rage, "you've done it again! What do you want from me?"

"Everything," Alfred whispered, "your body and soul."

"What impertinence," Arthur shot back, somehow growing confident.

"A whole new perspective, Arthur. Did it help?"

"Like hell it did," Arthur lied through gritted teeth.

Alfred leant down, and peppered kisses all over Arthur's reddened cheek and ear; he felt the writer flinch and tremble.

"Let me go, Alfred, please!" Arthur's eyes were tightly squeezed shut as he desperately tried not to feel remembered of the dreams he had had as of late. But the obnoxious at daytime and dangerous at night American didn't seem to care about his protests, because he was already unbuttoning Arthur's white collar while trailing kisses along his neck. _Please, don't let him hear my heart beating furiously! _

Alfred loved savouring Arthur's neck; it was long and pale, almost transparent. He loved the distinctive Adam's apple, the feel of it whenever he let his tongue trail over it, and of course the sound that was charmed out of the writer's mouth whenever he did that.

"_Oh…_"

Such a sweet melody of pleasure that Arthur produced when Alfred's fingers lingered on the scalp beneath ash blond hair and when he began to lightly massage that spot. The American smirked in triumph. Feeling bolder he gently bit down just below Arthur's Adam's apple and a blissful low cry left the writer's guarded lips.

"Yes, oh Arthur…" once again there was no touching needed to make Alfred's nether regions hot. Just by watching Arthur's reactions was enough to make his own penis twitch and rise. "Come on, let me hear your voice."

"You bastard, _ngh_, how dare you!" Arthur pressed himself tightly against the door as if to create the widest distance possible between himself and the American. His back was starting to hurt because of it.

"Tell me, what did I do to you in your dreams?" Alfred asked, all the while kissing Arthur's bare chest. He had grabbed the writer's waist to pull said man's lower body close to his own pelvis; their bodies touched. Both groaned at the friction.

Embarrassment mixed with shock the moment Arthur felt the obvious erection that belonged to the blue eyed American; the urge to just jump into a hole and disappear forever rose once he realised that he too had an erect member. He nervously bit his lip in hope Alfred wouldn't notice. It was of course foolish to even consider that possibility. Alfred's delighted smirk proved that he was found out.

"Well, well…what do we have here?"

"Sh-shut up!"

"Did I do this in your dream?" Alfred slipped his hand between Arthur's thighs, fondled his crotch and then grabbed the spot with the erection underneath the fabric without warning. Arthur gasped loudly.

Arthur could feel his resistance breaking. Indeed, Alfred in his dreams had done that and more. In his dream there were no troublesome trousers, just bare hands on bare skin. Thinking about it let his arousal grow stiffer. How could he have sunken so lowly, he thought with remorse.

"How can you change your attitude so quickly?" Arthur asked between groans. "First you're just an annoying brat and now you're like this!"

Arthur's outer garment was carelessly discarded onto the carpet; his white dress shirt was completely unbuttoned and had slipped from his shoulders, leaving his chest bare and revealing his erect nipples that were striving for attention. And attention they received. Arthur couldn't withhold the loud moan at the sensation of Alfred's tongue skilfully brushing over the sensitive nub. "Aaah~"

It was almost unbearable to see Arthur in such a condition, incoherent with lust and kissed with a rosy colour over his white skin. He only had one wish at this moment: thrusting into Arthur and fucking him senseless. Only his love prevented him from doing so already.

"I don't know, you arouse me so much and the beast within me awakens," Alfred said, "So, what did I do in your dreams?"

Arthur chewed on his lower lip, his pride wouldn't allow him to degrade himself any further but then again, Alfred had stopped his ministrations, though his body was craving for more. He flipped his head aside, was determined to stare at anything but Alfred. It didn't take long for his resolve to crumble and collapse. And he found himself glancing at the younger man over the corners of his eyes. His blush deepened.

"You…you touched me down there," he hesitantly said in an almost inaudible whisper.

"Like this?" Alfred closed his fingers around the bulge between Arthur's thighs.

"_Ah _~ yes, b-but I wore no trousers," Arthur moaned, his mind had given up working. He hissed as his penis came in contact with the air after Alfred had freed him from the bothering garments.

"Better?" The American smirked. God, Arthur was hot. He himself was also eager to touch the throbbing member.

The writer nodded.

Alfred bent over to kiss Arthur in the mouth for the first time that night. And he was delighted that his kiss was returned albeit with hesitation. He pushed his body against Arthur's as he deepened the kiss, his tongue swirling and teasing the Englishman's cave, savouring the heat that engulfed the muscle. At the same time Arthur cried out in pleasure at the friction of Alfred's heated chest being pressed against his, moving against his sensitive skin with the uttermost intention to drive him insane. And then there was this hand doing its magic around his penis, rubbing it up and down, round and round. Truly it was difficult to hold back his voice, so Arthur stubbornly bit his lip and tasted his own blood. Alfred though didn't want the other to keep his moans down; there was no way that he would pass the opportunity to hear Arthur's involuntarily seducing moans.

"Hey, let me hear your pretty voice, Artie."

The ash blond man whimpered and shook his head. His forehead was covered with small droplets of sweat, he really was concentrating not to let any sound escape his mouth. But Alfred was also determined. The American added a bit more pressure and sped up the movement of his hand, his eyes were fixated on Arthur's shaft and his senses were concentrating on the other's rapid and short breathing. He licked his lips as he simultaneously stroked over the tip of Arthur's erection, and finally, finally his effort paid off. Arthur couldn't hold back his voice anymore; his head jerked backwards, his mouth wide open to release the bottled-up sound of pleasure. He had begun to thrust his hips forward without thinking, meeting Alfred's servicing hand.

Arthur snapped his forest green eyes in a delirium-like state and all he could see was the ceiling being blurry and damp strands of hair blocking his sight. The fast pace of fingers sliding up and down his throbbing length increased the pleasure that was starting to build up inside his whole body and mind, ready to burst any moment. His legs were uncontrollably trembling; Alfred had to keep him from collapsing by holding him in a secure grasp. The moment came, where everything became too much, where the gradually rising pleasure turned into pleasure that rose exponentially.

"Aaah…ah…hah…I'm, I'm—"

"Come for me Arthur," Alfred said; his own voice oddly hoarse and strained.

Arthur reached his climax as if on cue and hot liquid dripped onto Alfred's palm. Watching Arthur come elicited a moan out of Alfred, and he hadn't even touched himself. Loosing all power and balance, Arthur promptly fell against Alfred's strong chest, breathing heavily.

The writer wasn't able to bring himself to lie to himself, to lie about the fact that it felt good. He would never forgive Alfred for this but his body was the most honest part of his being. He needed a moment to gather himself. Slowly he opened his eyes, his vision was still hazy but it was enough to see that Alfred still had an obvious erection. Of course, he had been the one who did all the work. Arthur gulped. It cost him all his courage to utter the following words, "Alfred, I…you're still aroused. Let me…"

Alfred couldn't believe what he'd just heard. Was Arthur really offering to…

His moan was deep the moment he felt Arthur's finger hesitantly brushing over his erection and his heart raced in anticipation at the sound of his trousers being slowly opened to release his attention seeking member. The sounds that Alfred made were making Arthur nervous; he'd never ever pleasured someone like this and those groans and moans because of his mere touching was a thing that was absolutely foreign to him. Seeing another man's penis was quite a challenge as well, boy what a challenge. He wouldn't say Alfred's was remarkably bigger but it was different, so very different, he couldn't exactly pin-point the difference, he just knew that it was – Arthur couldn't help but notice.

He experimentally touched the tip and promptly had the strange substance of pre-come on his fingertips. Then he closed his fingers around the length, his own body shuddered and Alfred's did too. "Hah, yes Arthur…"

"Stop calling out my name in such an obscene moment," Arthur snapped with a furious blush.

"I can't help it," Alfred replied with a grin and demonstratively, teasingly moaned louder. "Try moving your hand."

"Like this?"

"Yeah oh yes just like that. Mhmm~" Alfred closed his eyes in bliss.

"You sound like a whore, you know that?" Alfred nodded.

Arthur cursed as he felt his own penis growing stiff again and of course Alfred had to notice.

"You know what we could do?" Suddenly Alfred took and tugged at Arthur's member and pressed it against his own.

"Aaah…what, what…"

Alfred moved Arthur's fingers just so that the other was now holding both hard members. Without looking up he just knew that Arthur was red like never before. He moved closer and touched the Englishman's earlobe with a fleeting brush of his lips and whispered in a way that made Arthur shiver. "See, we're connected now. Can you feel me? Cause I can feel you – ah…" Alfred closed his eyes pleasurably and parted his mouth in a silent cry.

The writer was beginning to forget the turned situation that had taken up a whole new scale of embarrassment as he was suddenly startled by a knock from behind the door. His eyes snapped open; clearly he was horrified and suddenly more than self-conscious. Panic rose in his head; he stared at Alfred who didn't look pleased at all.

"Who - who is that?" Arthur asked in a raspy voice; his hand wandered to the door handle to make sure that it was really locked.

"I heard your voice, are you okay?" was the reply of a female voice.

Lucy.

"Lucy! I - I'm fine, yeah absolutely fine!" Arthur's cheeks burned - of all people!

Then he felt something touch his penis. He looked down and couldn't believe his own eyes. That Alfred continued pumping their members; he frowned as Arthur's wasn't reacting, then his face lit up when he slowly succeeded.

Arthur wanted to bury himself in shame. How could his fucking own penis grow stiff in this kind of situation? With a death glare he mouthed a '_what the hell are you doing?'_. Though Alfred only smirked mischievously at him and continued rubbing in a demonstratively passionate way, causing the writer's lust to rise despite the catastrophic turn of events. Against his will he was beginning to breathe in short and uncoordinated pants and he squeezed his eyes shut, biting on his lip till it hurt. Alfred saw it and kissed his lips softly to prevent him from hurting himself.

"Ah…_Oh my God_…"

"Arthur? What…what is the matter? Are you in pain? Let me in, please!"

To stop himself from making anymore sounds Arthur leant forward and caught Alfred's retreating lips and they kissed. Alfred's eyes widened in surprise. He didn't waste any more time and pulled the other close to him, buried his free hand in Arthur's hair, not caring if he incidentally pulled out some blond strands. The other occupied hand slid down to massage their balls and back up to pump harder. Arthur could feel his own orgasm nearing. He broke the kiss for a short moment.

"I'm perfectly fine, just had a nightmare, nothing too serious. Please-" He had to pause to suppress a loud moan, "please go back to sleep. Good…goodnight Lucy. "

No answer came. Finally he heard the rustling of her nightgown and she retreated with hesitant steps.

Meanwhile Alfred was annoyed but at the same time turned on by the interruption. The situation was risky and oh so very wrong, and that lit a fire within him. So he touched them harder, determined to make Arthur come for a second time that night. He felt it coming. His climax was approaching, making his heart race and his voice produce lewd noises. Judging by Arthur's infatuating expression, with his parted mouth, flushed cheeks and lust darkened emeralds, he was also close to coming. With one hard stroke Alfred released his seed with a muffled cry of pleasure and Arthur did the same, following him almost immediately. They both rode out their orgasm and couldn't stop the small moans from escaping their lips until they were completely spent.

Arthur slumped against Alfred's chest, panting. He was exhausted and scandalised by his own actions. It was just like the first time. The difference is…this time he couldn't blame everything on Alfred. He willingly gave himself to that infuriating American.

They stood there in a silent moment.

"I am so confused…" he whispered in an almost whiny tone. "Please go Alfred."

Alfred looked down at the man in his arms. A question lingered in his heart. "What do you think of me Arthur?"

"I don't know. I really don't know."

"I see."

"Please leave me some time to think."

Alfred placed a chaste kiss on the author's head and released him from his embrace. He turned to leave and was ready to climb out the window but was halted by Arthur's voice. "Alfred, I…"

Alfred tilted his head slightly to look at Arthur and smiled softly. "Yes?"

"…It's…it's nothing. Goodnight Alfred."

And Alfred disappeared in the blackness of the night with one last sad smile.


	4. Chapter 4

I have no excuse for this delay XD. And now it's almost Christmas again. There's probably no one else reading this anymore ;7; but it's okay, this fanfic will be finished cause I love writing it. And this time, I promise, it won't take too long XD. Chapter 5 will be the last.

This fanfic was created for the purpose of this very chapter XD.

* * *

**Chapter 4 - A Miracle**

London wasn't white anymore. It had been raining since early morning and it was nearing noon. Heavy rain drops hit and ran down the windowpanes of Alfred's flat and the silent room was filled with the sound of rain. Alfred had been sitting by the window all day without leaving his position, watching how rain washed away the thick layer of snow on the windowsill. The snow was long gone but his eyes were still fixated on the same spot. He could fall asleep to the sound of rain.

His mind wandered to his home city, back to the days where he was nobody, nothing and nought.

New York was a growing city and every flourishing city has its trash population. Alfred by the age of twelve had no memory of ever having parents who cared for his well-being. And he'd reached the point where he had lost the will to survive. Elitist opinion was spreading from the educated observers of social life, saying that the lives of workers and the poor were ones, where questioning and the pursuit for a brighter future had been abandoned. It had simply become impossible. When they worked they weren't doing it for a wealthier future, they did it to survive the day. And Alfred was starting to believe those spreading opinions. In other words, Alfred thought bitterly, his life was meaningless.

So one day he stopped looking for day works, deciding that he should just sit under the old bakery's porch and wait, wait until meaning would find him… or death – depended on what would come first.

It was on the third day of starving, his body already weakened and his mind hazy, where meaning finally found him. He called her angel and sometimes spirit; he wasn't sure what she was. At first he was scared of course, being someone who was frightful towards supernatural things from birth, but his body was too weak to run and he remembered that he had given up on life. But the angel was warm and her voice tender. She spoke of a boy living on the other side of the big sea and Alfred had to smile even though his eyes were steadily growing heavy. Three hours later he knew everything about Arthur. And Alfred longed to meet him.

"_The purpose of your birth is to be with him and to give him love," _she had said. And he was also supposed to cure the hurt in Arthur's heart and open his eyes to see the world as it is. Alfred remembered the pounding of his heart back then.

The next day he was picked up by a wealthy looking gentleman around his forties, he reached out his hand with a gentle smile. _"I was looking for the sky; seemed like I've finally found it." _

Alfred had thought about how curious fate worked.

Years later when he finally met Arthur, he fell in love. It was the way the Englishman looked like, the way he dressed and walked. How his eyes were always unfocused whenever he was out on the streets, clearly lost in daydreams. Then when Alfred finally approached him it was also his crisp voice. At that time he wanted to be Arthur's hero, just like how the angel wanted him to be.

He knew how being poor was and the way Arthur looked upon the so-called lower people, his indifference, was something that Alfred really wanted to change within him. So it was just heroic to lead Arthur back to the right track. After all, he was born for him. A life without Arthur was a life without meaning and a meaningless life was out of question.

Then he began to notice these small things. Like the slight glimpse of skin above Arthur's white collar or the length of his blond lashes that were involuntarily flirtatious whenever he was blinking. It was too much for Alfred. His feelings were connected by pure love and care towards Arthur. Until he was beginning to desire the Englishman.

Alfred wondered. When had his love become so twisted and evil? When did lust and obsession cloud his mind?

The first time Arthur rejected him. And Alfred was confident; after all he was the hero.

The second time Arthur rejected him once again. And Alfred's smile did not waver.

The third time Arthur rejected him still. And Alfred began to lose confidence.

And more rejections came as the months went by, and then it was winter.

In winter Alfred was desperate, feeling his beloved slip from his fingers in such a short time and at such speed that he feared to lose him once and for all. So he grabbed for him, took him and never let go.

At one point Alfred had lost track of his mission. At one point he had forgotten what the word hero meant, he was just a survivor. A survivor who needed Arthur in life. Arthur Kirkland was his illness, and he really had to smile at the irony of their circumstances.

But Arthur had given him hope, didn't he?

Alfred bit his lips as he rose from his frozen posture, now deciding to restlessly walk up and down the plainly furnished room, deep in thought and a bit feverish. "Yeah, he definitely gave me hope. He said he was going to think...and, and he didn't reject me. He..." Alfred gently touched his lips with his fingertips and allowed himself to smile. "He kissed me."

Alfred Jones was always quick to recover. Surely, Arthur wanted to be with him as well.

"Are you sure about that?"

Alfred turned and found a pale face staring at him.

"Anselm. You're still around. Weird. Your role is long overdue."

The protagonist chuckled and eyed the American with a look that made Alfred feel like an idiot. "Arthur's power of imagination is strong, Alfred. I'm sure I can manage a little while longer. Besides...I actually still have a role to play."

"What do you mean?"

"You'll see."

"And what are you doing here?" Alfred was now leaning against the cold wall. He looked at Anselm challengingly with his eyebrow raised. The ghost however did not appear intimidated, not at all.

"I asked you a question, didn't I?" He replied. "Are you sure that everything will be fine?"

"Of course! I'm the hero and I actually had a huge success last night. I know my ways hadn't been the most orthodox but...but Arthur is changing. I really hate myself for what I've done, really. I wasn't heroic at all...but Arthur is changing. Arthur is changing."

Anselm scoffed and rolled his eyes. "You are a good guy Alfred, your background allows you to be sensible towards social problems and that's exactly what Arthur needs. In fact, I don't care much about your inner conflict about whether or not your actions were right or wrong. I don't care about that particular self-reflection that you're going through. My question is simply, do you really think this is all about Arthur needing you?"

Alfred laughed; his voice filled the half-heartedly furnished flat. Touching his temple and suppressing more laughter, he said, "Of course he does. Arthur needs me and only I understand him! Only I can make him better! I'm Arthur's hero, aren't I? Yeah, I did some really nasty shit these past few days but the thing is, Arthur is changing and he's growing attached to me as well! We are…"

"We are meant to be together…it's written in the stars," he finished. His forehead touched the cool glass, blue eyes stared out the window, as if seeing Arthur Kirkland right before him.

The ghost made a noise and pretended to think while he was idly floating with both legs crossed. "Then…" said Anselm, "then why do you look so desperate?"

_Why are you desperate?_

* * *

Arthur was writing a mystery novel.

It wasn't deep literature, it wasn't about making the world a better place, it was by a long shot nothing like activist authors. But it was a step forward towards Arthur's development as a writer. A mystery novel was perfect as it was for one very popular, always successful in keeping the people entertained. But the most important factor was the chance to write as many varied characters as possible; their little quirks and big obsessions, their good nature and bestiality, their motifs and goals.

His first crime novel was halfway done and he was not to be stopped. The manuscripts were neatly stacked to his side but the floor was littered with newspaper and other research materials. For the first time Arthur cared for the happenings outside of the safety of his own room.

He was in the middle of a tiny romantic scene when he heard someone knocking the door. Looking up he already knew that it was the maid with his dinner. Normally he would carry on writing and sometimes decided to skip eating but today was different. Arthur was different. Instead of ignoring the knock he rose from his chair and walked over to open the door. The maid who had been used to Arthur's antics had already moved on to do other chores in the kitchen. Naturally, she was extremely startled at the sound of her master's voice calling after her. It was probably her first time ever listening to his voice. Shyly, she turned to find out what the master required.

"Thank you," said Arthur timidly, his own words felt foreign in his tongue and yet relief washed over his body.

The maid was stunned and sputtered an answer. She watched how Arthur bent down to lift the meal tray; he seemed to ponder about something as he was halfway inside the bedroom.

"One thing…you don't need to bring me my meal any longer. Please tell my mother that I'm going to join the table starting tomorrow," he said in a half whisper.

The girl nodded hastily and hurried downstairs, eager to share the big news to the mistress of the house and to the rest of the personnel.

Arthur sighed as he sat down to begin eating the steaming meal. The first step of reconnecting with his family had been done. And there was one thing that he wanted to find out. For that he had to invite Lucy out.

No doubt Lucy was delighted to see Arthur the next day and promptly his invitation was accepted. Lucy couldn't remember the last time where her fiancée had attempted to court her on his own accord.

Arthur escorted her to a fine restaurant for a candlelight dinner and pleasantly noted that she was beautiful that night. Her dress was still black but she wore brightly coloured laces and flowers on her fair hair, the pearls on her neck glinted in the dim light. It was a pretty sight. Pretty. But Arthur wasn't impassioned.

Dinner was nice. It had been long since their last friendly conversation, so they did look like the perfect couple, so very young and a brilliant match.

And Arthur was going to kiss her tonight.

"You're still wearing black dresses," Arthur pointed out while cutting the tedious roast lamb which had generously been roasted in sweet wine.

Recently Arthur was beginning to notice small things about seemingly trivial matters and his mind couldn't help voicing its opinions; so he found himself developing into a social cynic. It was amusing even to him, for Alfred was trying to make him become a bright, optimistic and loving person. As a matter of fact, even now in the middle of the luxurious dinner his mind couldn't stop complaining about that madam's overly bejewelled necklace, that gentleman's wannabe noble posture – everything in that room was sickeningly pompous. A few weeks ago these things wouldn't have caught his interest at all.

Good thing Lucy was a down to earth person; pretty but never too passionate with everything that glitters.

But still, why wasn't he feeling it?

Lucy looked down to her decently ruffled dress and back to Arthur. "Does it bother you? Are you afraid people might think you're going out with a widow?" She chuckled.

Arthur promptly waved his hands to dissipate her worries, now feeling bad for having been careless with his words. "N-no…it's just…I thought you've started wearing black because of me."

"Thinking about it it's pretty selfish and radical of me, isn't it? But I wanted your attention, I wanted to warn you, that you were threatening our relationship," she laughed bitterly, "but you never really cared nor noticed."

"I'm sorry," said Arthur in a low voice and he felt sick.

"But in the end I couldn't let you go."

He felt sick. Really sick.

Dinner was held in comfortable silence. At least that's how Arthur would have liked to describe the evening, however both of them knew that they simply had nothing to talk about.

* * *

Alfred needed to cool his head. So he had grabbed his thick grey coat and went out into the pouring rain under the safety of his umbrella. Pearl drops of rainwater clung to the leather of his shoes and he absentmindedly stared at those droplets. He hoped that Christmas in London was going to be a white Christmas instead of a wet Christmas. That would suck.

Walking down the park his mind wandered off to Arthur. Always Arthur. Guilt was making his stomach churn and his soul feel heavy. Alfred bit his thumb to calm his guilty conscience.

He really should have talked rather than, well, touch. Of course Arthur seemed to have enjoyed the ministrations but afterwards he always had this expression of self-hatred, as if he was disgusted with his self. And Alfred really had to wonder – how long was he going to justify his actions with Arthur's sexual reactions? The American chuckled bitterly.

"Damn I screwed up, didn't I?"

The rain stopped.

It was the time of the day where the wealthy retreated to the safety of their homes, marking the beginning of the shady nightlife. Alfred figured that it was time to go back.

But then he saw Arthur kissing that woman in the shadows of an alley.

Once they had finished their meal and there was nothing else to talk about, they decided to leave and head home. Leaving the hall with the luxurious chandelier Arthur immediately felt relieved and less guilty. Lucy too seemed more comfortable. She had her gloved hand lightly hooked around Arthur's arm, the other hand was used to lift her skirt.

The rain stopped as if on cue.

"We are lucky," said Arthur and led her outside.

It was already dark outside; the street lanterns cast a yellow light onto the still wet streets. London at night was a city of mysteries.

"I can't believe I preferred staying inside rather than seeing this!" Magic was everywhere, not only in the form of faeries and magicians and dragons. Magic, not unlike a miracle, was akin to an experience, one that was able to make your eyes wide in wonder and astonishment. And looking at this city with its many facets Arthur realised that he was having a magical experience.

Lucy stared at her fiancée. "You've changed Arthur."

Arthur scratched his chin with a sheepish expression and laughed. "I suppose I have."

His steps became gradually slower, he was thinking. And he looked unsure.

Lucy caught onto his uncertainty and tilted her head in question. "Anything wrong?"

Arthur looked up and stared, making her uncomfortable. After what seemed to be an awkward forever, Arthur finally opened his mouth to speak. "Lucy…forgive me but I'd like to try something."

She raised her brows, curious. "Go on then."

Slowly, Arthur nodded. He gulped.

Suddenly, Lucy felt a tug on her wrist. Arthur's leather gloved hand was tightly closed around it. Within a moment they were hidden on an alley between two looming buildings with no light accompanying them.

It was narrow and cramped. Her breathing was laboured as she was too shocked by the sudden movement. Arthur's chest was pressed against hers and she felt a violent blush shooting up her hot face.

"What, what was that about?" She still had troubles breathing.

An answer never came. The man himself was at loss for words.

Lucy could feel the tips of Arthur's fringe tickling her brow, his breath against her skin, and she could faintly see his Adam's apple moving.

Then, she didn't know. There were gloved hands on her cheek and chin…and then cold lips met hers.

Alfred stared in horror. Thousand things and nothing whirled in his head. He felt numb.

He turned on his heel and ran. Away, far away from the sight of a love unreachable.

The kiss didn't last long. Arthur had forced it to last a little bit longer, as if determined to feel something, anything. But he felt nothing but self-loathe.

Their lips parted and Arthur said that he was sorry.

* * *

Alfred shut the door to his flat with a loud bang, enough to make the walls rattle at the force. He barely registered the shout of the landlady and flopped down onto his cold bed. Though he was too restless to stay sprawled over the bed.

The next thing he did was rushing over to the window, staring out into the dark night. He stared and stared, clenched his fists and bit his trembling lip. He didn't realise that tears had started to gather around the corners of his eyes, they filled his vision until everything was blurry. Then finally, the tears streamed down and were unstoppable. Little whimpers and other pathetic sounds escaped his quivering lips without him being able to control any of that.

With a loud gasp he began to cry, loud and pitiful. Fists bumped against the windowpane, along with his head.

Alfred was crying; he was alone and nobody listened to his weeping.

"Say, Alfred, why are you sad?"

It was the ghost's voice as he crept from behind without making a sound. "Why are you crying?"

The still sobbing Alfred fell onto the cushion of an armchair near the window, shoulders trembling and eyes hidden behind his hands. "Go! I don't need you mocking me!"

The ghost, though didn't look like he was going to let Alfred be in peace any time soon. Bending himself forward, closer to the American's face, he asked once again. "Alfred, why are you sad?"

"Goddamnit, can't you see?"

"I want you to answer my question," the other said, voice still calm.

"Arthur…Arthur kissed her," whispered Alfred. It was hard to say it out loud and he could only shake his head to cry some more, any shame and pride now forgotten. "He told me he was going to think about it, about _us__. _And I thought that he felt the same, that he did love me."

"No Alfred." Anselm's voice was surprisingly stern and echoed in the dark, depressing room. "No. It's not all about 'love'. Something cracked inside of you at the very moment you saw Arthur kissing another person."

Alfred's brows furrowed and he was seriously beginning to be pissed off by Anselm's weird antics. Without thinking and with a sudden rush he bolted up and stared at the ghost, he was partially staring right through him but his glare was nonetheless intimidating.

"It is about love! It has always been about love! Love and salvation of the most beautiful person ever!" He snapped.

"_That's it! That's exactly it!_" The ghost yelled excitedly, looking unabashedly happy as if he'd helped someone especially stupid to understand a certain matter. "You said it, Alfred!"

The American was taken by surprise. He gawked, lost for words. "I said what?"

"Salvation!"

"Yeah, salvation."

"Do you really think that this is about you giving someone salvation? That this is about you being the hero over a damsel in distress?" Anselm's transparent face was only inches apart from Alfred's, scaring the human and making him step back.

"That was my mission, wasn't it? To give Arthur love, to make him open his eyes…"

"Alfred, there was never a mission," Anselm said carefully, now surprisingly gentle. "Only a miracle."

And as Alfred was still so very quiet, confused and unable to comprehend, the ghostly appearance decided to carry on.

"Think, Alfred. You've travelled across the ocean with a treasure in your heart. The treasure is your eagerness to save a person and be said person's hero. But please go back in time and remember. Remember the you before you've even heard of Arthur."

"I was…a boy without home. Worthless to others. I…wanted to die."

"Why did you want to die?"

"My life had no value, no meaning."

"And then?"

Alfred's eyes shone. "And then meaning came. It's Arthur!"

"Does that mean, Arthur is your reason to live?"

The American's eyes went wide as realisation struck him like lightning. The 'fictional' ghost smiled.

"It does, doesn't it? Arthur saved your life. And you _need_him, otherwise you'll die."

At this very moment Alfred was able to feel the winter chill, hear the rustles of the leaves and see the dust on his table as his sorrowful blindness dissolved. The world, albeit at night, was suddenly so clear. And he could breathe again.

"It is arrogance to think that you're the one-sided hero. You need Arthur, Arthur needs you. This is a miracle that sparked a meeting between two individuals. There had never been a mission, Alfred, only a miracle. Remember that."

Alfred would never have thought that he was ever going to receive life lessons from a goddammed fictional character in the form of a ghost. But Anselm was right and now he felt stupid for being so over the top.

"Wh-what should I do now?" Alfred looked up with uncertain eyes to which Anselm responded with an eye roll.

"Seriously, Al. Be a man and do what a man must do. And Arthur will hopefully do the same."

It was everything Alfred needed to hear. Within a blink he was at the door and took the stairs down. His loud steps caused the landlady to yell at him for the second time that night.

* * *

Arthur was reading the manuscript on his bed. He wanted to look for any mistakes or any scenes that needed improvement. The papers were nicely stapled all around him, sorted by chapters.

He was calm. The night had brought him answers, definite answers. While he was scared, absolutely terrified, he had never been so certain in his life. The fairy to his side was nuzzling him and he could sense that the creature was proud of him.

"I know, Chelles, I'm also proud of myself," he said to the little fairy with dark hair, tied together into two ponytails.

At the very moment there was a cold breeze and as he was sure that he'd closed the window, he knew that he had a guest.

Slowly, he raised his head, hand carefully laying the piece of paper onto the neat staple and eyes slowly blinking at the blond American standing by his bed.

To Alfred, the sight of Arthur sitting there cross-legged in a pile of duvets and pillows, each of which in deep royal colours, was the most beautiful thing ever. It was difficult to explain but something was different with the Arthur in front of him. The other was not yelling at him to get the hell out, he didn't go on defence to protect his body; he had changed.

The one before him looked like a painting.

Arthur's eyes weren't glaring but almost in a daze; did he dare to say gentle and soft? He wanted to touch the blond strands of hair falling over his face, those slightly parted lips…

Arthur really looked like a painting.

Maybe Alfred's fate was to be a beholder. Nothing else. He was allowed to look but not take and keep.

"I'm sorry," said Alfred in the end.

Arthur tilted his head just slightly and Alfred could barely say any further. "I've been selfish and arrogant…no that's more of my problem than yours…I meant to say I'm sorry for having been violent to you. I'm sorry for recklessly tearing through your wall and destroying your perfect magical world."

The Englishman looked down to his writings and then back to Alfred. He was surprised to hear these words. And images of the nights 'together' played in his head and Arthur thought: _finally. _

He needed those words of apologise in order to carry on. And Alfred, too, seemed ready to carry on. They had both matured in different ways.

"Well, yeah…" Alfred pointed at the window. "I won't ever appear in your life again. Farewell…Arthur." _Though know that I've always loved you. Your happiness will be enough to keep me alive. _

Alfred turned to walk away, ready to go into the dark of the night and leave Arthur.

Arthur's mind raged, definitely that was too simple. How could Alfred just leave like that and what, expect him to forget everything? That was even more arrogant and simply, simply irresponsible!

So many things to say. Instead his arm stretched out, his fingers closed around the hem of Alfred's coat, causing the American to abruptly stop and turn his head in wonder.

Now Arthur had a lot of thing he wanted to say. _You disappoint me! I hate you for giving up without trying to make up for your mistakes! _

"Ah, linger on…thou art so fair."

Alfred's eyes widened at those words uttered by those sweet lips. And Arthur's other hand grabbed his arm and pulled him down onto the bed, sending the manuscript flying all over the bed and floor. One lonely page slipped through the open window and got carried away with the wind, far away over the roofs of London.

* * *

A/N: 'Linger on, thou art so fair' is actually a quote from Goethe's Faust. It expresses Arthur's personal/emotional fulfillment, even though his mind screams to blame Alfred, his heart thinks he's the most beautiful thing eva XD


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